The Worst Curse
by BirdBrain711
Summary: She is slowly becoming entangled in this place, and Graham is not sure whether she sees it yet. Missing scene from 1.03.


TITLE: The Worst Curse

AUTHOR: BirdBrain711

PAIRING: Emma/Graham

RATING: T

SUMMARY: She is slowly becoming entangled here in this place, and Graham is not sure whether she sees it yet. Missing scene from 1.03.

I.

It feels as though the interior of the hospital has somehow deflated, become less warm and bright. As if Regina's departure, followed immediately by Emma's, has stolen vital energy from the very air.

Graham hangs back for another moment, watching through the glass door as Kathryn fawns over a confused-looking David. Already his presence here has begun to feel uncomfortably conspicuous. His only value is in times of crisis, and until very recently, Storybrooke has very seldom had any of those. He allows himself the indulgence of wondering if this might be why he finds Emma's presence here so inexplicably _exciting_. It feels like instinct, a deep primal urge he can neither understand nor deny.

Taking a breath, Graham shoves the thought aside and heads toward the front door. It feels as though he ought to tread lightly as he steps outside; the crisp night air smells of autumn, and pine needles, and delicate, precipitous change.

Regina has already vanished into the night with Henry, but Emma is standing a few feet away, watching the entryway of the hospital with such intensity that she almost looks like a shadowy statue.

"Waiting for something?" asks Graham, and she jumps.

"No." She does not volunteer anything further.

"Some_one_, then?" he tries again. She is a mystery to him; he has grown accustomed to reading people, but Emma Swan defies the laws of familiarity.

"Is this an interrogation?" she counters, and there is an edge of challenge in her voice now.

Graham smiles. This is a game he knows how to play. "I could arrest you for loitering, you know."

Emma rolls her eyes. "Go ahead. Seems like the jail has the only vacancies in town."

Graham considers momentarily. He has seen her sleeping in her car. "How about a drink instead?"

II.

Emma is silent on the short walk to Granny's, still preoccupied, or unconcerned with pleasantries, or both. She drinks whiskey straight, and Graham finds himself unsurprised by this. Everything about her is filled with a quiet intensity, depths he cannot yet fathom.

"It doesn't make sense," she says, as soon as she takes her seat at the table. A little of her drink sloshes over the rim of her glass, and she trails her fingers through it, as though that might make it disappear.

"What?"

"Kathryn Nolan." Emma takes a long swallow of her drink and sets it down again, harder than necessary. "Have you ever seen her before? Did you even know your John Doe had a wife?"

Graham grips his own glass, unsettled by the question. He is unaccustomed to anyone questioning Regina; it is simultaneously refreshing and disconcerting. "No. But that doesn't mean—"

"The population of this town is what, a few hundred?" she interrupts, leaning forward as if this might make her more imposing. "When he was brought in, did you even try to find out whether he had a family? Whether anyone was looking for him?"

Graham remains silent; the coma patient has been an unfortunate mystery as long as he can remember, though the idea that they might _not_ have tried to locate his relatives seems an impossibility.

"Exactly." Emma lifts her glass again. Her cheeks are flushed with cold, alcohol, frustration. "So either you're _really_ bad at your job, or you didn't even try. Let me guess. Regina told you it wasn't necessary."

"Not everyone goes looking," Graham counters instinctively. "Not everyone wants to be found."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" She tosses back the remainder of her drink.

Graham hesitates, suddenly reluctant to start a real argument with her. Exciting as it is, her presence here represents an unquestionable threat to the tenuous peace which has existed in Storybrooke until her arrival. "Nothing. It means you haven't been here long enough to know everything about us."

"Then please, by all means, tell me what I'm missing."

Ruby arrives at that moment with another drink for Emma, and the sudden silence stretches out between them, like the taut saccharine thread of a spider's web. She is slowly becoming entangled in this place, and Graham is not sure whether she sees it yet.

He lowers his voice pointedly when they are alone again, feeling oddly and surprisingly protective of her. "It means that I would expect you of all people to appreciate the value of an unexpected second chance."

Something in her changes then, softening, as though the corners of her iron façade have begun to lift ever so slightly, exposing just a little uncertainty. She lifts her glass again, looks into the golden-brown depths of the whiskey, sets it on the table once more. She keeps her eyes averted when she speaks again.

"You knew Henry, before," Emma says quietly. "You looked out for him. I can tell."

"Keeping people safe is my job," Graham hedges. The truth seems simultaneously too cruel and too precious to tell her, especially when he remains unsure of her true intentions here. And he is willing to bet that _she_ is still uncertain of what she is doing here as well.

"And what did you need to keep Henry safe from?" she presses. There is a hint of something vulnerable in her tone; regret, guilt, loneliness, he isn't sure.

"Himself, mostly," Graham answers. "Same as everyone."

Emma narrows her eyes. "You think Henry's a danger to himself?"

Graham smiles, somehow reassured by her concern. "Aren't most children his age?"

"I don't know," she answers, frown deepening. "I don't know _anything_ about children his age. And Henry doesn't exactly—seem like most children."

"He's run away before," Graham admits at last. "Said he was looking for you. He'd never gotten very far before, though."

"He was looking for me—before?" Emma sounds taken aback.

"How long did you look for your parents?" he counters, smile widening when her look of disbelief grows. "I heard you talking to Mary Margaret. In the woods, earlier."

"That's none of your business," she answers, bristling.

He senses that he has reached the limits of her trust for tonight. "It's never wise to judge people you don't really know."

"What is it with everyone in this town going all philosophical on me?" Emma snaps, finishing her drink again.

Graham chuckles softly; already her defenses are becoming predictable. "Stay awhile. Find out."

III.

Much later, when the air has grown sharp with frost, and the eerie stillness of approaching midnight has fallen over the town, he finds himself out, patrolling the streets for elusive signs of change, as he has for as long as he can remember. This night, he pauses in the shadow of Emma's yellow beetle, bright like a beacon even in the night.

As a sliver of pale new moon appears on the horizon, she is nowhere to be seen.


End file.
